For The Woman He Loves

by tinethewordsmith


Picturesque as ever:

his mouthful of mirth,

his monument of beauty,

the fine-toothed vessel  of his soul.


Your form inspires

the artful happiness

between those ivories–

those towering twins–

I love so much.


The heart I cannot catch

slips and dies within

your handwoven net, but

not without that kiss–oh


how the greenery kills me

when I look at you: the spitting

image of his singularity–the

porcelain cast for him.


The comets burn for a

glimpse of your bounty;

his throbbing truculence

feeds on your flesh;


your womb sows the soil of

those familiar pitter-patters;

his heart beats your name;

and his love murders me.


Longer, wiser, brighter,

lovelier, crisp– you are the

lauded rose, transient and

ever trifling–and as


he runs and paints you with all

of the world’s alacrity on the

easel of his universe, all of

him grovels for you, even when


he knows no canvas can contain

such an immortal skin that speaks

the most eloquent language–

articulate, fluent, pushing–


of razor-sharp icicles that melt

for his calcified self.  You are the

succulent hinge of his loins, and

the end of all his loving means–


oh, you are his pinnacle.

2 Comments to “For The Woman He Loves”

  1. You can feel the emotion in this creative piece, nice!!

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